Christopher Buehlman - Those Across the River

“Because he makes people react like you just did. And because he’s my great-grandfather.”

“I know. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go telling people that.”

“Why?”

“People have long memories around here.”

“What I’m really interested in is how the slaves rose up and killed him after the Union troops failed to dislodge him.”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“It sounds like you might. I’d be grateful for whatever you could tell me.”

“All I know is hearsay.”

“That gives me someplace to start.”

“Just rumors and gossip and bullshit. I won’t insult your intelligence. But really, how did a reasonable fellow like you take an interest in a piece of… in a man like your great-granddaddy?”

“I love history. Maybe it’s like your interest in taxidermy. God pronounces a critter dead and I say I can still make him play the banjo.”

He laughed hard and his eyes shone with camaraderie. He filled my glass. I spoke again.

“Savoyard was always verboten. Forbidden fruit. My daddy’s family was Illinois Yankee through and through. His father fought with Sherman. His grandfather was a banker who funded abolitionists. So he falls in love with this haunted young Southern belle and marries her. Now he learns her granddaddy was a Confederate cavalry officer, and worse: a slave speculator with an unparalleled reputation for cruelty.”

“That’s fair to say about Savoyard. Yep.”

“Mother wasn’t to talk about her family to me. And she didn’t. But when I got to college, I started digging it up for myself. My father’s secrecy about the Confederates on the other side of my family tree is almost certainly responsible for my decision to be a history major. I wrote my thesis on minor engagements peripheral to Sherman’s march, and touched on the action at the plantation then.”

“ ‘Peripheral to Sherman’s march.’ Christ, it’s sweet to hear a man use big words that aren’t Bible names. So you were in France?”

“I was.”

“Did you lose anybody?”

“My best friend, Dan. We were getting shelled at a place called Nine Elms trench. The Krauts really had our number that day. They gave us two hours’ worth. I had never been in anything like that before and I was starting to fall apart, what with all the noise and shaking and dirt raining everywhere. But especially from not knowing where the next one was going. Then it happened. One landed almost in our laps. The concussion blew Danny against the side of the trench so hard his pants came half off and a big loop of his guts came out his back door.”

“Jesus. That’ll fuck somebody up in a hurry.”

“Yeah. He was done.”

“I meant you.”

“He just wanted his glasses on. I was so dazed I helped him try to find them, because that seemed like the most important thing. So we were both on all fours trying to pick up little sticks and hot pieces of shell, but my hands were shaking too badly, and there were no glasses anyway. He really thought everything would be okay if he could just find his goddamned glasses.”

“What about your glasses?”

“What? Why?”

“Must have knocked your glasses off, too.”

“I had spares. I always have spares.”

“Prudent.”

“I went to see his mother after the war.”

“How did that go?”

“Like hell. She brought out a tray of coffee and cookies and was very polite, but every time she looked at me I felt her thinking that I should be in the ground instead of her baby. That I was tougher and could have protected him if I’d tried harder. Nobody ate the cookies. I thanked her for the coffee and left, because there was no way to make things okay. One of the hardest and truest things a grown-up learns is that sometimes it’s not okay.”

“I’m surprised all of that didn’t cure your romantic streak.”

“Well, I went to university after the war and got really absorbed in the States’ War. That war seemed different. Like the way it should have been.”

Martin laughed then, finishing off his moonshine and getting up to fetch another jar.

“You’re not interested in the slave uprising at all. You like Savoyard. You like the fucker, think you shouldn’t, then like him even more. Like some weak-kneed schoolgirl mooning at the town criminal.”

“Maybe. Maybe I envy him for having gotten to ride a horse and fight with a saber and dally with the ladies. Childish things like that. But I can never condone his cruelty. His… perversity.”

“You’re disgusted with Savoyard the torturer but infatuated with Savoyard the cavalry officer.”

“Yes.”

“Seems like you got taught a lesson and wouldn’t learn it.”

“How so?”

“Most people who’ve been shot at don’t want to hear about people getting shot at. Dressing it all up in different uniforms shouldn’t make a difference.”

“What do you know about it? You weren’t in the AEF, were you? You said you hid in the woods.”

“I didn’t have to go to France to know France was a sack of shit. It’s always a sack of shit. And I’m not blaming you for going.”

“ Blaming me?”

“But you ought to know better now. You ought to leave your general alone. Might not like what you find.”

A tortured half minute ticked by.

“You’re full of secrets, aren’t you?”

His nostrils flared.

“Something else on your mind, Mr. Nichols?”

I think I flared my nostrils, too.

“Shit, just say it,” he said.

“What went on the other night?”

“Goddamnit, I knew you were going to ask me that.”

“Of course I was going to ask you that. It was very discouraging behavior from someone I was beginning to take a liking to.”

“That’s sweet.”

“You didn’t smell like booze. What gave?”

“Why don’t you tell me a story, Mr. Nichols. You looked a little green around the gills. What was wrong with you ?”

“I saw something I wanted to tell you about.”

“So tell.”

“Now I’m not so sure I saw it.”

“That’s probably better.”

“What?”

“Some things it’s better not to be sure about. Would you agree with that?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “In general.”

“Suppose I were to tell you that something which is outside of your realm of understanding goes on in those woods across the river. Suppose I get specific. You then have no choice but to think that I have boiled my brain. Now suppose I tell you that nothing unusual at all is going on in those woods. You will then remember the way I acted the other night and you will have no choice but to suppose that I have boiled my brain.”

“If you dodged checkmates like you dodged questions, you’d be a match for Capablanca.”

“I tell you in all seriousness that I have nothing to say that will satisfy you. If you saw something bad past the river, don’t cross the river.”

“Do you cross the river, Martin?”

“And if you don’t like the way I acted on the night of the full moon, stay away from me then. And stay home. Think of those woods as a beautiful woman. Fine to play around with most of the month. But on certain days, go if you want, but don’t wear your best shirt. That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

“Alright. Thank you for the game, but I should get back.”

“That’s fine, too.”

I stood up and smoothed my clothes out, looking for my hat. I found it.

“Don’t forget your camera,” Martin said, smiling impenetrably.

I picked that up, too.

My angry exit wasn’t working out at all.

On my way out the door, I paused for a moment when another piece of Martin’s handiwork caught my eye. It was a carved wooden diorama featuring a scale model of Miller’s General Store, complete with tiny checkerboard and a shot glass for a pickle jar. All the regulars were stuffed mice. An overstuffed mouse in an apron was clearly Paul Miller. A strong-looking mouse in overalls represented a fellow named Buster Simms, whom I would get to know soon. There was a one-armed mouse, too.